Blacktop Wasteland(34)

“V6?” he asked.

“Yeah. I rebuilt it from the top down. Got some extras in there too,” Beauregard said.

“Ha, I bet you do. Shit, man, I wish I was driving it. She looks legit. I bet she get up,” Kelvin said.

“Yeah. She got some legs. I burnt up all my credit with Bivins Auto Supply getting her straight,” Beauregard said. He slammed the hood down and took a step back from the car.

“Feel good, don’t it? Getting ready for a job,” Kelvin said.

“No,” Beauregard lied. It felt better than good. It felt right. It was like he had found a comfortable pair of old shoes that he had thought were lost forever. Intrinsically he knew that was a problem. It shouldn’t feel good or right. The list of things that should bring him joy should begin with his wife and children and end with something benign like an upcoming fishing trip or going to a see a legal drag race. But what should be and what was rarely aligned.

“Let’s get that beer,” he said.

The music in Danny’s was as dark as the décor. “Hey Joe” by Jimi Hendrix was pumping through the surround sound. Danny’s had a fancy new LED illuminated jukebox, but someone had decided Jimi’s old tale of murder and woe was apropos for some day drinking. Beauregard ordered a Bud Light and Kelvin got a rum and Coke.

“You sure you don’t need some help on this?” Kelvin asked.

Beauregard sipped his beer. “I’m sure,” he said.

Kelvin threw back his drink. The ice cubes clinked together. “Alright. Just saying you keep me in mind,” he said.

Beauregard sipped his beer again. “Yeah. I think this is gonna be a one-time thing. Everything goes right we can make some improvements to the shop. Add an auto body department. Compete with Precision for the next round of county contracts,” he said.

“Yeah, I hear you. Don’t mean we can’t do a little something on the side,” Kelvin said.

“Actually, that’s exactly what it means,” Beauregard said. He finished his beer and slid off the bar stool.

“Hey, man, I didn’t…” Kelvin’s voice trailed off.

“I know you didn’t,” Beauregard said. He leaned forward and put his mouth close to Kelvin’s ear. “If anyone asks, I was at the shop all day this coming Monday and Tuesday.”

“You didn’t even have to tell me that. I already know what time it is,” Kelvin said.

Beauregard patted him on the back and headed for the exit. As he approached the door a tall gangly white man stepped through. A mop of unruly brown hair sat on his head like a designer dog. His wide brown eyes were rheumy and bloodshot. The man gave Beauregard a brief glance before sidling up to the bar. As he passed, Beauregard noticed a red birthmark on his neck that bore a passing resemblance to a map of the United States. The birthmark ran in the man’s family. His father and his two uncles had sported the exact same birthmark in the exact same place. That was how they had acquired their nicknames. Melvin’s father had been Red, and Melvin’s uncles were White and Blue. The Navelys had been what passed for bad around Red Hill back in the day.

Melvin Navely sat two seats down from Kelvin at the bar. Beauregard heard him order a gin on the rocks. When he raised the glass to his lips he noticed Melvin’s hand was trembling. Beauregard wondered if it was the d.t.’s or seeing him as he entered the bar that made Melvin’s hand shake. Despite Red Hill being such a small town, they didn’t run into each other all that often. He could count on one hand the number of times he had seen Melvin Navely in the last fifteen years. Did Melvin consciously avoid him? Beauregard thought it was possible. He didn’t blame the man.

He wouldn’t want to see the person who ran his father down walking around free either.





TWELVE



Monday morning, Beauregard woke up at six. He put on a pair of blue jeans and a black T-shirt. He dug an old pair of sunglasses out of the nightstand. He left his wallet on the nightstand. Kia was lying on her side with her legs tucked up to her chest. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She turned and kissed him back.

“Hey,” she said.

He stroked her hair. “I’m heading out,” he said.

Kia opened her eyes. “It’s today, ain’t it?” she asked.

“Yeah. I might not be home till late,” Beauregard said.

She sat up and kissed him on the mouth. “You just make sure your ass comes home,” she said.

“I will,” he said.

They stared at each other and spoke with their eyes.

Don’t get killed. Don’t get caught.

I won’t. I’m built for this. It’s all I’ve ever been good at.

That’s not true. You’re a good father. A good husband. I love you.

I love you too.

He went in and kissed his boys too. Then he headed for the shop.



* * *



Beauregard slipped into the Buick and fired her up. It didn’t sound as impressive as the Duster, but it was almost as fast. He had taken it out last night for a test drive. It handled smooth, taking the curves like a tango dancer executing a balanceo. He eased her out of the garage, got out and pulled down the roll door, and headed for Reggie’s trailer.

Ronnie and Quan came out on the second honk of the horn. They were dressed identically in blue coveralls. They both carried plastic grocery bags with the IGA logo prominently displayed. Ronnie got in the passenger’s seat and Quan climbed into the back seat. Ronnie was uncharacteristically quiet. Quan was humming a tune Beauregard recognized as “Regulate” by Warren G and Nate Dogg. He backed up next to Quan’s car, then headed down Reggie and Ronnie’s driveway. The Buick had tags from another old Buick in Boonie’s yard and a counterfeit inspection sticker. Beauregard kept it well under the speed limit as they drove out to Cutter County. They would be fine unless some overeager Johnny Law decided to racially profile them and run the plates.